


Isosceles

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-01
Updated: 2006-03-01
Packaged: 2018-08-15 21:50:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8073994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: T'Pol undergoes Pon Farr and must find a mate. Will she choose Archer or Tucker? What if her choosen mate is already promised? Spoilers, 3.15 "Harbinger." (08/12/2004)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: General Season 3 spoilers.  
  
Not the typical T'Pol Pon Farr story, I promise. Okay, I know this is from T'Pol's POV, but give it a try. I promise you will be rewarded. You should all know I'm mostly allergic to T'Pol/Tucker. At least the way they do it on the show. God, I hated 3.14 "Harbinger." This is my attempt to make it right. I think of it as black comedy, but I may be alone in that idea.  
  
Beta readers: Akin and Cha Oyese Tempest Thrain.  


* * *

I am not worried. Vulcans do not worry. And it is especially illogical to worry about something for which you already know the outcome. I didn't come here for a diagnosis; I came here for a confirmation.

The lights thrumming up the side of the imaging chamber are oddly relaxing, as regular and calming as the fire of a meditation candle or the rhythmic beat of a steady breath. Even now, as I feel the dulling of the sharp edge of logic that has cut me a fine path through life, I must revel in the constancy of science. Even if I go gradually insane with Panar syndrome, science will always be there to comfort me. It is a constant in an inconstant world, strumming its steady beat even when the eyes of the observer flicker to their own syncopated tune. Science and logic will continue without me, long after my ability to hold them has vanished.

The streamlined machine around me clicks with a resounding finality, spitting me out to face the shining blue eyes of Doctor Phlox. I find it odd that he should still be smiling his seemingly all-encompassing smile when the news he surely intends to deliver to me cannot be happy.

Vulcans do not worry, but the knot in my stomach tells me that perhaps I am no longer a Vulcan. Those afflicted with this disease are no longer part of our society, and I have been living with humans for just over four years. I sometimes think I have become more human than vulcan. Late at night I indulge my so-called 'sweet tooth' with Commander Tucker in the mess hall. I attend movie night and participate in avid discussions of the various films with Dr. Phlox. I join in games of chess with Lieutenant Reed and sometimes find myself enjoying them, if I am being honest with myself. I even put up with Ensign Sato's attempts to dress me up to attend parties with her. While these are small incursions on what logic dictates one should do with one's shipmates, they represent the slow siege on my control. And now, with the mutiny of my own body, I find myself fighting a losing battle.

Dr. Phlox is going to tell that I have entered the terminal phase of Panar syndrome. I must prepare myself not to let him see the fear that is gradually creeping up on me. I repeat a mantra from Surak, 'I am calm. I am peace. Fear has no place here.' But I have already strayed from the path of Surak. I wonder if his words have any power here. Phlox opens his mouth and it is all I can do not to heave a sigh. As it is, I must close my eyes and brace myself against the words I know are coming.

"Congratulations, Sub-commander." Congratulations? What could he possibly want to congratulate me on? He frowns at the look he must find on my face—and I used to pride myself on being unreadable. "Is it not traditional to offer one's congratulations when a vulcan enters pon farr? Completely naturally this time, might I add."

He offers another one of those too bright smiles. I am surprised, finding that I am unsure whether or not to be pleased myself. Part of me resents the disruption of my well-established routine—my duty—by the chaotic forces of biological imperative. I find it ironic how the science I hold so dear necessitates emotionalism, no matter how brief. Still, a part of me, the part born—or perhaps reawakened—by exposure to humans is excited by the prospect of finally being able to let go of my assiduous control, if only for a short time. Captain Archer might call it 'shore leave from myself.'

"How much time do I have?" I ask cautiously.

"Perhaps a day before the need will become too intense."

"And there is no delaying it?"

"No. And I don't see any reason to if I could. It's as much a natural process as anything else. Perhaps this is that 'final piece of the puzzle' we spoke of."

"You think I was simply looking for a mate?" I say, doubt—and perhaps scorn—creeping into my voice.

"No. You were under an extreme amount of pressure, both biological and psychological, in a highly charged atmosphere of emotions. You coped as best as you could. Still, you were reaching out for the emotional connection that life with humans taught you was necessary. Perhaps bonding will end this emptiness that you currently feel."

"What if I do not wish to lose the emptiness?" I ask futily.

"Then you will find a way to hold onto it."

Vulcans do not experience fear. Therefore I cannot be afraid of losing the numbness that has descended upon me after the Expanse like the peace after a storm. It is the only thing standing between myself and the precipice. I have felt insanity before—touched it as briefly as I touched bliss. It painted the colors into my dull life, but it pulled me toward violence in the process. The brilliance was more magnificent than anything I can even describe, but the shadows were a sharp relief of self-hatred, as loud in their emptiness as the death cries of my idealized life.

"Do you need to perform additional scans?"

"No, Subcommander. This isn't an illness, so there's not much for me to do but observe. I would like to see you again tomorrow, just to make sure everything is going well. Though I doubt there will be any complications with your Panar syndrome, one can never be too cautious, hmm? If you wouldn't mind, I would like to document your case for the benefit of the medical community."

"Of course, Doctor." It is strange: at the beginning of this mission I would have been too wrapped up in the vulcan fascination with privacy and discretion, but Doctor Phlox has done so much for me. He helped me through my addiction, when my friends and colleagues were too preoccupied with their own concerns and those of the ship. I do not doubt that I would be either dead or clinically insane by now if not for the doctor, and while he was one of the first colleagues I grew to respect on Enterprise, now I am proud to call him friend. If studying me will bring him joy, then I will allow it. It only causes me a marginal amount of pain, after all.

"Have you considered a mate, may I ask?"

"Indeed you may. I regret I do not have an answer for you, however."

"You seem to get along well with the captain." He remarks casually, sneaking a peak at my reaction as he looks up from his scanner.

"I consider the captain an admirable companion."

"You also seem to enjoy the company of Lieutenant Reed."

"I also consider the lieutenant a friend. But I must spend a considerable time meditating on the subject before I make my choice. There are many factors to be taken into account."

"How very coy, Subcommander. You know I am always here if you need to discuss it."

"Thank you, Doctor. I am glad to have you as a waiting resource if I should find it necessary. If we are finished, however, I would like to return to my quarters."

"Of course, Subcommander." He nods and offers me another wide smile as I rise to leave. Before I am out the door he stops me, "And, T'Pol..."

"Yes Doctor?"

"Good luck."

* * *

The flame is steady, but my mind is not. I have slipped easily into the deep trance of meditation a thousand times seated on this very carpet. Tonight, however, the pervasive calm does not come without a fight.

I slam my hand down on the floor in frustration. My body has turned traitorous. I cannot overcome this flood of emotion. I am restless in the stillness I always found so comforting. It is as though my body is a prison: the loneliness of this solitary cell clawing at me, tearing my carefully guarded logic to shreds.

I must concentrate. I need to focus on something basic.

I recall my first training in the concepts of logic:

My father is seated across from me, a candle burning between us. Though not a distinguishing line marks the stoic mask of his face, his eyes are smiling in encouragement.

'What is the first step in making a logical choice, my daughter?'

I feel the excitement rising in my young mind and the pride at knowing the answer. I am quick to hide them. They are just excess weights to unbalance the precisely calibrated scale of logic. 'First one must correctly identify the problem.'

The problem: I must find a suitable mate.

'What then?'

'Then one must identify possible solutions.'

'And if there are too many?'

'First eliminate those that are instantly unviable.'

Well, that is a place to start. Process of elimination is simple enough for my distracted mind. At least I will be able maintain the semblance of rationality. Propriety dictates that I limit myself to those above the rank of ensign, human custom to those I consider my friends. Just those two conditions are enough to leave me with only four men: Captain Archer, Commander Tucker, Doctor Phlox (though he has no rank) and Lieutenant Reed.

What was the next step?

'Weigh the remaining options, eliminating those which, while viable, do not level with the obvious merits of other options.'

I must immediately exclude the Doctor. Denobulan customs far outstrip even humans in complexity. Bonding with one already promised to others would not be right.

Then I have to eliminate Lieutenant Reed, for despite the degree to which I consider him a worthy companion and friend, I have yet to reveal as much of myself to him as I have to the other two. And, while I have caught him appreciating my body on several occasions, his romantic intentions seem more directed towards Ensign Sato.

'Now consider seriously the cost and benefits of the remaining options and chose the one that is most likely to produce the outcome which best outweighs its negative consequences.' My father says sternly, in a voice that will ring true for a lifetime. A part of me misses the days of calm certainty, of absolutes. My father left no room for questioning.

But I live among humans, how can I fail to question? Now I am distracted by my nostalgia of days without complication.

What are my options? Captain Archer and Commander Tucker. Two men whom I am sure care about me, and that I care about, more that I would like to admit at times. In fact, I am scared to probe the depth of my emotions for them. I tried once, and found all the reasons to hold onto my hard-won control. I struck a chord of primal violence, and put all those I cared about in very real danger.

And now? Who am I to argue with biological necessity?

This natural journey into irrationalism seems almost the opportunity I have been waiting for, the opportunity to really feel. Yes, it has been a year since I indulged, and I spend every moment trying to forget, trying to reassure myself that I am still vulcan. It is ironic: at times I am not sure if I am an overly emotional Vulcan or a green-blooded and stoic human. Either way I am sick, I suppose.

I remember when the commander used to encourage me to indulge in my emotionalism. He should have, 'been careful what he wished for.' He saw how dangerous it could be; how it was nearly the death of us all. I think it might even have made him hate me for a moment. He certainly seemed to resent my emotionalism then, though I suppose it was only natural. I was just another thing standing between him and peace he so desperately sought.

He has always been capable of exciting feeling in me. But my union with him, no matter how brief, is only a reminder of the damage I caused and the overwhelming fear of my own violence that haunts me still. If I choose him, will I lose myself? Will it tear open old wounds for both of us, plunging us back into that desperation of a year ago? I surely respect him now, for his perseverance if not his quiet strength, but are these stirrings of something more or just the aftermath of that hallucination that was my life in those days? I don't know if any of it was ever real.

And the captain? I have never felt as lost as I did when I thought he was going to sacrifice himself. Even as we were both spiraling out of control, he was my touchstone. Unlike Commander Tucker, he and I have always taken solace in a cool intellectual dialogue. Ever since he saved my life at the beginning of our mission together, he has broken through all the vulcan ideas of protocol. He may be an 'inferior human' and a superior officer, but we have always met as equals.

And he refused to leave me yet again, when he found that we could not use trellium to protect ourselves with me aboard. He needs me as much as I need him. Sometime, somehow, we have gone beyond mutual respect and hard-earned trust. We have become dependent upon each other—each needing the other for a sense of balance. But is this love? I still know too little of the concept to decide.

He has stirred in me a viciously protective loyalty that I have never felt for another, the commander included. Is this something one feels for their friends? For their heroes? No, I know too many of his flaws for him to be a hero in my eyes. He is a brave man, and undoubtedly a great one, but we've all made too many mistakes to be called heroes.

So I am left to decide between the raw passion of the commander and the mutual respect and comfort I find with the captain. Logic would state that I chose the captain, with whom I can both maintain control and trust if I should ever lose it. Emotion leads me toward the commander who has become dear to me despite all logic—or perhaps I only long to feel his body against mine once again. As images of well-defined muscles, soft lips, rough hands, bright blue eyes sparkling with desire, flood my mind, unbidden. I allow myself a soft sigh.

Nothing about ponn far is logical—why should I struggle to maintain control now? Because I am not on Vulcan, not that I would rather be if I had the choice. I am among humans, and here mating is not an innocuous and easily compartmentalized task on the checklist of life. I must remember that here, mating has consequences. My choice will not just affect my life, but it will drastically alter the life, personality, and emotion of another, and perhaps others on the ship. But how can I make a decision for beings that I still understand so little?

What would my father say now? I remember asking him:

'But Father, what if the sum of benefits and consequences of two options are equal?'

'If both options have a different balance of benefits and consequences, one must still be better suited to the situation. The impasse is caused by your own lack of knowledge. In such a case, you must endeavor to learn more—find the hidden benefits or consequences and apply them to the nuances of the situation.'

One option must be superior, but I cannot see which. I am 'comparing apples and oranges,' as Commander Tucker would say. Ordinarily I would meditate to discover the hidden aspects of the issue, but I now find that I cannot.

There is only one way to come to a conclusion: On a whim I stand and step out into the corridor, still dressed in my meditation robes. I will let my steps guide me to my destiny.

* * *

"Commander."

"Hey, T'Pol, what can I do ya for?" A tiny humorous part of me laughs as the ironic truth to his statement.

I step into the organized chaos of his quarters, wondering at how little things have changed since I was last in his personal space, watching him sleep after we washed the last of the nightmares away. He still finds sleepless nights even now, nearly a year after we made a fragile peace with the Xindi, but it is always he that shows up at my door, hair endearingly messed, a familiar haunted look in eyes red from crying. Though even those nights have become few and far between, and I find myself missing them. Not because I wish him pain, of course, but because I miss the distinctly human warmth that he let slip stealthily into the sterile calm of my space, and perhaps my heart. Every once and a while I will come upon a residual eddy of emotion, an incongruous reminder of the man that remains in my life even though the intimacy of our shared pain has not.

Even now, I sometime wake with dreams of the touch of his skin on my own, the ghost of his kisses on my lips, the salty taste of his tears as he cried on my shoulder afterwards. I never knew why our passion would cause him to remember his sister. I'm still not convinced that she was the reason for those austerely beautiful tears, though surely they were tears of loss. His sadness was as much a high for me as his passion, and it is almost more poignant in memory. The raw emotion in the air, the nearly visible image of self-hatred and heartbreak, were near ecstasy. For a moment, I wished I knew what heartbreak felt like, just so I could attain the level of passion I saw in him that night.

It was too intense; too unsafe for me, even when my control was gradually slipping. Even when his touches were furtive and distracted, his sweet whispers desolate, and his lovemaking more desperate than tender, he managed to stir a depth of emotion in me that I had never even known existed. I suppose I first fell in love with him then. But can you fall in love with a ghost? Even I knew better.

His calm acceptance of my skittish morning-after retreat bothers me still. Was it too intense for him as well? Somehow I doubt it. Then our union was one of mutual anguish. A moment of need fulfilled, avenues explored and promptly closed. Neither of us was in the condition to find fulfillment in it. Then it was an experiment, a tantalizing promise of what we could have when we were both healed. And now, we are. What's stopping us?

His smell surrounds me now. And to think I once found it unpleasant. It is just as rough but sweet as the man himself, a heady aroma that stirs memories of a joyous laugh, an infectious enthusiasm, a playful intimacy. I close my eyes, struggling to reign in my beating heart, breathing in deep and allowing his smell to sate my stirring arousal, at least for the moment. There is much talking to be done before I can allow all barriers to dissolve, when he can see my honest desire for him.

His brow furrows in sudden worry. "T'Pol, is something wrong?"

"No."

Instead of backing down at my words, his frown deepens, "Ya can tell me, T'Pol. What are friends for? There's no need to be shy."

"I..." I find the lie sticking on my tongue. Why should I resist? I have come seeking his help, after all. I guess it is that same illogical pride that he always seems to stir in me. ". . . I am unsettled."

The look of relief in his eyes seems to brighten the room. He must have been expecting the worst. I don't think I have ever seen anything more beautiful before in my life. The love in his concern sneaks on silent feet into my heart, leaving nothing but warmth in its wake. I definitely made the correct choice: he loves me. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Yes," I moan as I lean toward him to capture him in a kiss—at last. His sweet taste is like nectar on my love-starved lips. A year ago, I did not realize how necessary this contact was when I gave it up. A deep satisfaction is already spreading through me in gentile waves.

My body thrills in anticipation of finding myself safe in his arms yet again, but he pushes me away, gently but firmly. Is that regret I see in his eyes, or wariness? I do not blame him for his caution. The last time I kissed him like this, I left him. "T'Pol, I can't..."

I silence his protests with a hand laid delicately on his chest, where I can feel his heartbeat quickening in the same lustful tide that is coursing through me. "What do you know about vulcan mating rituals, Commander?"

He blushes and averts his eyes, fiddling with the lose material of his sweatpants in a way that gives me the overwhelming desire to tear them off. It is odd that he can still find shame before me after I have already seen him in the intense vulnerability of orgasm. "Not much. I mean...well, you know what I know."

I can't help but raise an eyebrow in amusement. In such an outspoken man, this sudden shyness is endearing. "Do you remember what happened when I was affected by the microbe Dr. Phlox and I picked up?"

"You mean when you came on to Malcolm despite the fact that he was wearing an EV suit?" He says with a meager attempt to stoically raise an eyebrow.

I grit my teeth at his response. I know that he is only teasing me, but it is reminiscent of the aggressive back and forth that occurs in vulcans as a type of foreplay. Though this flirtation is only verbal, I am finding it difficult to concentrate. "That was the artificial induction of the vulcan mating cycle, known as pon farr. It occurs every seven years in order to allow couples to copulate and thus propagate the species."

"Jesus, T'Pol, you make is sound so sterile. And I thought no one could take the fun out of 'copulation.'" He says, wrinkling the skin at the bridge of his nose in distaste.

"Believe me, Commander, it is far from 'heartless.' Pon farr is known as the 'mating fever,' because individuals are driven by passion and instinct to either mate or die."

"No shit! I never would have thought...I mean...it's not as though you were ever passionless..." I am amused as he tries desperately to backpedal, "But, without the chemical enhancements...wait...mate or die?" And I thought the concern in those probing eyes could not intensify. I cannot describe the depth of passion I see etched into every line of his face. Is it pity? No, it is empathy. His soul is wounded by the fact that I could die, and it touches me, compassion stirring my blossoming love more than desire for his sculpted body ever could.

I must speak, lest I get lost in this moment of intense sympathy. "It makes sense, does it not? Those without the strength to obtain a mate, or at least survive a fight for one, are simply a burden to the population, and should die to better allocate the resources of their species."

"You can't be serious. You're talking about eugenics."

"No, Commander, I'm speaking of biology. 'Survival of the fittest,' as your Darwin would say. Besides, our society no longer operates that way. We removed the process of natural selection when we overcame our emotions. That is why there must be arranged marriages on Vulcan. If everyone has a predetermined mate from childhood, so there is no need to waste lives fighting amongst ourselves for the strongest mates."

"By logical, scientific standards natural selection is more logical." Inwardly I smile at his challenge. I am surprised by the ease at which we are able to slip into a natural intellectual banter. I wonder why he has so determinedly pulled us away from the actions of the here and now to a vague theoretical discussion of evolutionary biology.

Even though I sense this is a diversionary tactic, I will not back down from a challenge from my chosen mate—that is as biologically determined as our need to spread our genetic line. "On the contrary, Commander, natural selection does not always serve our purposes. We live in a time where supporting a large population does not stretch a finite amount of resources. Families still 'compete' to arrange a worthy mate for their children, making sure that improvements are made to the lineage, but those who would not ordinarily be able to compete are still allowed to procreate at no cost to society. Strength and strategy in a fight to the death are no longer the only skills our society depends on in order to survive. In fact, it is often those on the fringes who produce valuable offspring. 'Infinite diversity in infinite combinations,' is indeed valuable in a species."

He nods absently, distracted from his distraction.

I am unsure what to say. We can sit here discussing biology for hours, but as Captain Archer says, 'the clock is ticking,' and we are getting nowhere. I try to pour both the urgency of my need and the comfort that this is something willing sought into my words. I wonder how love sounds on the tongues of human women. "I want you," I breathe.

"Are you sure? There's no one else you'd rather have?" I find it strange that he should be insecure at this time; I have already demonstrated my desire for him.

"I had considered the captain." He responds with a slight guffaw. I do not know why he would find the idea of the captain and myself either disturbing or humorous. But, then again, much of human comedy remains a mystery to me. "But my desire for you is overwhelming. I do not believe I could have any other." I both hear and see his sharp intake of breath at my comment.

"If we don't do this, you'll die?" His gaze is piercing. He is the only person I believe can look through all of my well-laid barriers directly to the core. He has seen both my violence and my psychosis, after all. What could be more intimate than that?

I nod, solemnly. I do not want to die, but if he rejects me I will die willingly. By coming here I have 'burned my bridges.'

"You're sure about this?" He asks sheepishly. "You know I would do anything for you, but I don't want this to get in the way of our friendship."

The unspoken words are in the air. Neither of us dares comment on how our brief affair has been that never-talked-about obstacle to our deepening friendship. We've overcome it now, forced by circumstances to reconcile, if only because we could only heal each other.

"I assure you, our friendship will remain intact."

"Alright then." He says with an awkward smile. I am puzzled by his discomfort. It is not as though we have never done this before.

I lean in to kiss him, remembering how I initiated our first kiss. His response is delicate and timid, a far cry from the passion of earlier days. But our entire world was more passionate then. A part of me relishes in this new tenderness, but the chemicals coursing through my veins say otherwise.

I pull him to me, catching him off balance, but cushioning the blow of our landing on the floor with my own body; beneath the animal passion, I know I must be delicate with him. His clothes are rags in my hands, ripping with a satisfying snap. My own clothes are easily disposed off, and I have him beneath me, seeing his body through the pressure of skin against skin rather than with my eyes.

Even though our lips are still locked in a bruising kiss, his touches are slow and feather-light, still hesitant in stark relief with my shameless desire. His eyes are closed, his movements rigid, but his arousal undeniable.

I want to see him wild for me, now that our roles are reversed. For then it was I who was nervously exploring new territory, almost afraid of his desperate passion. I role us over, pinning those infuriatingly shy hands above his head with an iron grip, despite the fact that he does not struggle. He opens his eyes in surprise, and a catch a brief look of confusion. Perhaps he did not expect to see such fire in my features, for a slight smile is now tugging at my lips.

I press myself against him, trying to fuse our bodies. I want to be part of him, with him a part of me. Even more urgent than the needs of my body are the needs of my mind, so I grip his face, attempting to merge our minds.

From what I remember with Tolaris, it seemed that entering the mind of another would be easy, especially a human. I could not resist him, so I find it odd that my beloved is now resisting me. He holds onto something tighter than I thought possible in a human. Perhaps I do not have the strength to overcome his emotion, though I am instantly flooded with the byproducts of his feelings.

I can sense in him a weary resignation, a longing for something other. Yes, he craves love, passionate humanlike love. Perhaps he is worried about the circumstances of our bonding. If I could just break through I would show him how his love is returned—that this is not caused by a temporary chemical reaction, only revealed by it. I can give him the lover he craves, if only he could see.

He needs to know that I have healed. I'm not the frantic and crippled woman I used to be. There is no war, no ghosts fighting to drag him under. What was once only an inappropriate burden can now be only a gift, given freely between equals, not out of need but of love.

I push at the barriers, probe along the borders of lonely destitution for the seam that will let me in. Soon there will be no private. I will be able to experience the emotions that I so crave; even if I must do so vicariously.

"Don't." His hands come up in defense, clamping tight around my wrist. It should be painful, but my lust-scrambled mind can only register it as pleasure. Still, I know by the sudden fierceness in his eyes—the most fervent emotion I have seen in him so far—that he is serious. It would be just as much a violation as I suffered at the hands of Tolaris, and I would not consign another being to that. It is only logical for him to fear something so invasive, especially since all he has ever heard of it is negative.

I am confident that he will eventually submit of his own volition. For now, the touch his body to mine, and the familiar feeling of him moving in me are enough to sate my ravenous appetite. I am content to devour him.

* * *

I wake alone and disoriented. These are not my quarters. I don't keep numerous photographs of smiling blond faces on my walls, or stacks of clothes and PADDs strewn carelessly about as if deposited there by some force of nature. Is that a banana peel? I am not as disgusted as I should be. This room is the embodiment of my beloved and I relish in its personality, because I love him. 'Love,' even now the word sounds strangely out of place. I am sure that this is love, but I am still unable to define it.

In the middle of the clutter I can see the hypnotic pulsing of the message light on his screen. I rise, clinging the blanket that someone has tucked carefully around me, and retrieve the message.

T'Pol:

Dinner with the captain. We're going to discuss the specs for the plasma injector upgrades. Don't worry, I'll cover for you. Doc wants to see you when you wake up. Feel better.

-Trip

His language suggests that he believes I am sick. I must remember to explain to him that, while it is best for the Doctor to monitor me, this is not an illness. What we are doing is not a cure. Perhaps he was confused by my description of it as the 'mating fever.' I must constantly remind myself that—despite his sometimes preternatural ability to read me—he is not vulcan; he can never truly understand. Perhaps if he had let me bond, he would.

It is illogical to waste more time agonizing over it. I look around for my uniform, finding that the mess must have swallowed it up. No matter. I pull open his closet and retrieve a loose pair of light drawstring pants and a worn t-shirt with a cartoon-like depiction of a marine mammal and the words, 'Miami Dolphins: NFL Champions, 2143.' Ordinarily, I would have stopped to ponder its significance, but all I care about now is how well it manages to maintain his scent, even after washing. I take a deep breath, savoring it as I step out into the corridor.

On my way to sickbay I receive several curious looks from passing crewmen, but I ignore them. The sooner I am finished with Dr. Phlox's tests, the sooner I can see my beloved.

I enter sickbay to find that Phlox has left for dinner, but is expected back soon. I am directed to one of the private examination rooms in the back while the staff technician goes to retrieve him. Perhaps this if for the best: it will give me time to organize my thoughts.

I do not receive this time, however, because the relative peace of these sterile gray spaces is interrupted by a sudden flurry of sound. My heart recognizes the voice of my beloved before my mind does. His soft drawl is a soothing balm to my aching soul, frayed out of separation from him. "I'm telling ya, I'm fine, Cap'n."

"You are _not_ fine, Trip, (well, maybe in the Reed sense of the word). Am I the only one who can see that huge bruise on your chest?" Idly, I wonder why Captain Archer is looking at my beloved's chest and not the doctor. I hope that I have not hurt him.

"Look, Trip, I don't care if you did something stupid like accidentally closing the seal to a Jeffries tube on yourself or if tripped over a pile of your own clothes, again. You've got to get this taken care of, no matter how embarrassing it is!"

"Hey, no need to bring up my past offenses...I had a legitimate..." A loud gasp from my beloved almost propels me into the next room to defend him. "Hey, watch where you're poking! Leave the prodding to the man you contracted to play official mother-hen!"

"From the looks of it you could have bruised a couple of ribs. I really need you to tell me what happened."

"Nothing."

"I don't want to have to make it an order."

"Jon. I'll get it looked at. It's just that we need to discuss..."

"Did you check to see if you hurt your kidneys...Are those bite marks?!" His voice cracks as he tries to combine professional interest with personal astonishment. "Who did this to you?!" he accuses. I can't help but smile at the fond memories of bestowing those marks on tender virgin skin, staking my claim on what is rightfully mine. Some voice in the back of my mind tells me that Vulcans do not smile, but I ignore it. Smiling seems as natural as breathing, why wouldn't I?

"I don't know." His voice is soft, almost ashamed, as though admitting to my claim out loud would make it real. I can't help the wave of anger that washes through me; how could he be ashamed? Reluctant? I would have the entire universe know that he is mine, why would he deny that? Our love is more powerful than all that dare stand in our way. Wasn't he the one who always told me that I had a duty to disobey orders that were wrong? Did he not say that I need not marry Koss out of loyalty to my parents or my heritage, because marrying someone I didn't love was wrong? I can't comprehend why he is so reluctant to defy duty now, when it is clearly wrong. Surely our love is more important that what the captain thinks about us. It is not as though he can afford to lose either his chief engineer or his science officer.

"You don't know who gave them to you or you don't know if they're bite marks?!" He pauses for a second, and I know that my beloved must have shrugged by his frustrated groan. "Don't lie to me, Charlie." I am baffled by the captain's tone as well as his choice of words. His voice is both angry and defeated, as though the only emotion that can bring him to speak is anger. It's an order, but one unlike any I've ever heard him give—more a plea than anything else. And I have never heard him refer to my beloved as Charlie; Trip, Commander, even Charles Tucker III on occasions, but never Charlie. That same voice at the back of my mind balks at the idea that I have missed something in their interaction, warning me that I should reconsider my assumptions, but I push that voice down.

"You at least owe me the truth. If not as your...A Captain needs to know what's going on with his crew."

"Fine, Captain." Again, a first. I have never heard my beloved pronounce every syllable of his friend's rank—in fact, I almost thought him incapable. Still, the anger that I expected in his voice is strangely absent. Normally, he would yell defensively that his personal life is none of the captain's 'goddamn business' but his tones are equally soft and defeated. He seems to say every syllable with regret. "I think we should get T'Pol in here for this."

"T'Pol?" He seems to snarl my name, as though it is both something so disgusting it's below him and the highest threat to his very existence. His emotions nearly drown out the question mark.

"I would be revealing her confidential medical information without her consent, not to mention breaking the trust of a friend." For just a second, my mind screams with doubt. Am I just a friend with a medical condition? No, friends do not make passionate love.

I squeeze myself in next to him on the bed, wrapping an arm possessively around his shoulders and he jumps with a retroactive "Ouch," though I believe it is more out of tension before his captain than pain.

The captain takes a protective step toward us. I meet his harsh gaze unwaveringly. He will not challenge this relationship. I previously heard him state that relationships would not be forbidden. In fact there are several serious ones already in-place aboard. I have a right to my mate, but I do not grip him tighter, just in case that yelp of pain was genuine.

"Look, Jon...Cap'n," He winces saying the rank. "This isn't what it looks like."

"Well, what the hell is it Trip?"

"The long and the short of it is that T'Pol has the vulcan mating fever. If she doesn't mate she'll die." He looks away from his captain, focusing intently on where my hand is resting possessively on his leg, gripping the soft gray material tight, "She said she'll only mate with me." Because he is my beloved.

I do not understand why he needs to justify this to the captain. It is not his prerogative to intervene, even if it might benefit him to know. I see the unspoken words in his hardened features. I have not seen this quiet rage since the Expanse. A small tickle of fear dances down my spine as I remember the battle-hardened captain of those days.

The tension in the room is palpable, falling around us like a thick cloud, binding tongues that desire nothing more than to lash out in fury. The captain knows it is not his place, but I sense that there is much he wishes to say to my beloved.

I did not realize that his feelings toward me ran so deep. Perhaps I should attempt to talk to him alone. I am about to suggest this when the Doctor strides in the door, a smile on his face as usual, breaking the tension as though it were nothing more than air. Then again, it is actually less than air. I suppose this is why I usually refrain from the use of metaphor.

The captain looks away in shame. The Doctor has, in fact, caught him in a less than admirable moment. My beloved just heaves a tired sigh and focus on the ceiling, probably to conceal an eye roll or some similarly inappropriate gesture. I find that it honorable that he makes the effort to hide it.

"Ah, Commander! How good to see you! And still in one piece! Quiet a feat after an encounter with a Vulcan in pon farr. I've been meaning to ask you a question: I already have T'Pol's permission and I was wondering if could have yours as well...I believe it would be incredibly educational to observe a cross-species coupling such as this."

"Excuse me?!" My mate's voice seems unnaturally high and strained. I begin probing him for signs of additional injuries, but he brushes my hands away.

"I would very much like to watch," Phlox explains.

"Yes, Trip, in the interest of science." The captain's voice is venomous and deeply sarcastic, even to my estranged ears. " _I_ would like to watch as well." It is odd, not at all the usual light tone he uses when teasing my beloved over dinner. It almost sounds like a threat.

"Then you could make a tape of it and show it at movie night," my beloved replies with equal venom and a sneer. I am thrilled to see him stand up to the threat of an aggressor, especially the leader.

"Come on, Trip. It's _me._ It's nothing I haven't seen before," he snaps. I notice the Doctor raise his eyebrows at this, a giddy expression coming upon his face much the same as when he becomes fascinated with a new organism. I do not know why he finds this comment significant.

Besides, it has been far too long since we have joined, and I am beginning to feel the heat rise within me. I stroke a hand down my mate's thigh, but he grabs it, more forcibly than I expect, considering how passive he was just hours ago. The captain fixes us with a brief but threatening glare, but Phlox only chuckles. "I suppose I should hurry with my tests, hmm?"

I am sent inside the imaging chamber again. It takes all of my control to remain still while separated from my beloved. I need to be outside where I can see him, sense his reassuringly graceful movements and gaze upon his clear blue eyes and search out the love so evident there. The steady hum of the imaging chamber, once so comforting in its order, is now a painful screech in my delicate ears. It no longer parses out a constant rhythm, for the meter of my body has been set to the heartbeat of the one I love alone.

When the imager finally releases me, after what seems like an eternity, I find the Doctor wrapping my beloved's ribs in a clean white bandage. I look at his hands and twitch. He's touching what is mine. I want to cry out, but I remind myself he is here only to care. Allowing these touches, though they are almost physically painful to me, is for the well-being of my love, so I swallow my jealousy.

The captain has just finished making an argument, it seems, for his face is flushed and both doctor and patient look unusually sheepish. It appears that my presence has incited him to leave, because he takes one hateful look at me and turns on his heel. "I'll see you on the bridge, Commander." He says the rank like an insult, making my mate cringe, or perhaps that is the Doctor tying off the bandage.

I am torn between the urge to tackle the one that has caused my mate pain, and the urge to feel warm flesh again on mine. The doctor takes one look at the feral glint in my eyes and says, "Well, I'll let the two of you continue. You should spend your time wisely if the captain expects you to be back on duty. I can analyze the data and contact you if I find anything significant."

I am anxious to leave, and tug at my mate's arm but he resists me. I begin searching for his shirt to distract myself from my growing need.

My beloved's voice is plaintive and his gaze pleading as he asks the doctor, "Can't you tell him that we need the day off. I don't think I can face him tomorrow."

"Then why don't you just stay in Engineering?"

He gives a laugh like a dry cough, "Oh, he'll come looking for me, trust me. Jonny can be rather...um...resentful, at times." He fixes the doctor with a look that would drain all the logic from even my vulcan mind, but Phlox does not relent.

The doctor shakes his head sadly. "You heard him: 'I'm not going to give two of my senior officers a day off just so they can fuck like bunnies all day.'" He says it almost mockingly, smiling at the snort my beloved gives at his impression of the captain.

"It's not as though it's purely recreational." I forget about his lost shirt and tug at his hand urgently, trying to focus on what he's saying, but I end up staring at his lips and wondering if there are any places on my body that they have not kissed, and cataloging the places that he might have missed for further exploration.

"While it would undoubtedly be better if you both had the day off, I cannot, in good conscience, use my position as chief medical officer to override the captain's orders when serving four hours of light duty will not pose a significant threat to your health."

My beloved heaves a defeated sigh, rising from the bed, and wincing from the sudden movement, or perhaps the cold metal of the floor on his shoeless feet. "Well, we better get going then. Thanks, Doc."

I turn before I can see the smile I'm sure Doctor Phlox has in response and take my mate's hand as we walk from sickbay. He cringes as crewmembers pass, seeing us in this state. I do not mind. I am proud to call him lover.

A meek voice at the back of my mind chimes almost inaudibly, 'But pride is an emotion.'

* * *

I have long given up on doing my duty. I am supposed to be performing a sensor check, a task I could, 'do in my sleep,' as the captain might say, but I cannot concentrate, even for that. Somehow I manage to find my mate in the shapes the numbers form as they dance across the screen. And the blue glow of the electron microscope reminds me too much of his eyes, the sight of the other male crewmembers too much of him in his tight uniform; I have been avoiding Lieutenant Reed all day—or at least for the two hours I've been on duty. Two hours might as well be an eternity.

The captain has been shooting me self-satisfied glares every time he pops his head out of his ready room to address one of us. He hasn't said a word to me. He has just entered the bridge again to ask Ensign Mayweather about one of the navigational sensors, a question to which I would know the answer if I had been paying attention to the logs I was supposed to be checking.

"I don't think so, Sir, but Commander Tucker has been working to improve the interface recently—you really should ask him." I am thrilled by the mention of my beloved, his name enough to bring a thousand inappropriate pictures to mind.

The captain pauses for so long, looking over Mayweather's shoulder to stare at the star field ahead, that Ensign Sato prompts him from her station, "Would you like me to ask him to come up here, Sir?" Why is she suddenly so noisy? At least now she's meddling in the captain's business instead of sending curious glances in my direction.

The captain seems torn. He knows that it will appear suspicious if he refuses, but it might be even worse to watch us together. I never thought the captain would be such a jealous man. His passion obviously runs far deeper than I originally believed. The only times I have seen him more passionate, in fact, have been when he was defending his ship or his planet. He finally nods absently, before returning to sit on the edge of the captain's chair and fidget.

The seconds waiting for my beloved to appear are painful, but well worth it, because when he appears he is radiant. He has a splotch of engine grease on one well-defined cheek. His hair is tousled and his uniform unzipped slightly. I can smell the sweat on him. He must have been working especially hard, undoubtedly to keep his mind from thinking of me.

Even the look on his face—something between timidity and annoyance—is desirable. I cannot help myself; his smell draws me in like a homing torpedo. I rise from my station to great him, launching myself across the bridge and into his arms in a heartbeat. The bridge is utterly silent, though I do not care, because the only thing in my existence is he. He returns the hug briefly then pushes me away. I know he does not mean it as a rejection—I can tell by the sad resigned look in his eyes—but I feel it like a blow directly to the heart.

"Commander. My ready room. Now," the captain says in a low growl. My beloved only nods and follows him, both of their forms tense.

Ensign Mayweather stares at me dumbfounded and Lieutenant Reed coughs and tries to busy himself with his station, while Ensign Sato sends me a look that is both questioning and concerned. Perhaps she believes I have had a relapse of my earlier illness. I wonder if that is not far from the truth.

My attention leaves them the second the doors to the ready room close, however. I use my superior vulcan hearing, heightened now with the fever, to hear his harsh words. "What the hell was that?!"

"I have no control over her, Jon! You shouldn't have let her back on duty. She's sick," he says with a sigh. Why does he still not understand? I am not sick. While a fierce independence in me insists that I am perfectly capable of doing my duty, another part is excited by his protectiveness.

"You didn't stop her."

His words are bitter and sarcastic. "Forgive me for not wanting to cause a scene in front of the entire goddamn bridge crew."

"You are perfectly capable of discretion, Trip. I can certainly attest to that."

"It definitely takes two to dance that particular tango, Jon." I wonder if he always addresses the captain by his first name when they are alone, even on duty. I have never purposely tried to eavesdrop like this before. "Why don't you take this up with her?"

"She's in no condition..."

"Then why the hell is she still on the bridge?!"

"Phlox said..."

"Fuck what Phlox said! He's a doctor, not a captain—though he recommended what a captain that's not out of his mind should do; not that anyone around here listened. She's going through the vulcan mating fever, Jon. The fact that _T'Pol_ can't keep her hands off me on the fucking bridge should be enough to show that her judgment is impaired. I don't care if it's natural or not!"

"She may not be well, but _you_ are."

"You think I like PDAs on duty, Jon? You, of all people, should know better. You have to get this through that thick skull of yours: you can't treat this as something we just up and decided to do. We're doing this because T'Pol's in trouble."

His voice is oddly pained, beginning so quietly that I have to strain to hear it, then building to harsh accusation. "How do I know that, Trip? You've slept with her before. This obviously isn't a one shot deal like you told me it was."

"You know how much I was hurting. You hurt me. Life hurt me. And for a second I wondered if T'Pol could fix all that. It wasn't as though you didn't have your own moments of doubt."

"I had the fate of the world in my hands, Trip. You can hardly begrudge me a few stress fractures. I was driven to a place I never wanted to go and never want to go to again. I did things...especially to you, that I never should have done, and I hate myself for doing still. We both made mistakes. But haven't I paid my debt? This isn't about what happened in the Expanse. This is about us in the here and now. I'm no longer the hardened Starfleet captain willing to make any sacrifice to save his world and you're no longer living in the shadow of your sister's death, desperate for salvation. We're Trip and Jon again. And you have no excuse..."

"Don't you trust me, Jon?"

"This isn't about trust," he snaps defensively.

"Then what the hell is it about? Don't you dare tell me you're jealous, Jonny." His threat is met with silence. Even though it pains me to think I've caused the captain pain, a part of me is both flattered and thrilled. I have two worthy men fighting over me. This is how it should be. If they were vulcan, they would have to fight to the death. My blood boils at the very idea.

"God damn it, Jon! We've been around the loop too many times for this. You weren't jealous the first time, why now? Why can't you just be happy? Hell, these aren't circumstances I would ever hope for, but I can't help but be happy and I should think you would be too. T'Pol's going to live—nothing else matters. You should be beyond ecstatic that there's something that can be done for her. Frankly, as much as I know this has hurt you, I don't give a flying fuck how jealous you are! I'm doing this because it's the right thing to do and no amount of envious bitching on your part is going to change that!"

The captain's tone is clipped, barely contained. I can almost imagine him running his fingers through his hair in nervous frustration. "Look, Trip, I will not continue such a personal conversation feet away from the bridge. Need I remind you, we're both on duty? Come to me quarters after shift and we'll talk, okay."

"Yes, Sir." The response is overly formal, thrust through gritted teeth. As the doors open and I try to glace at the retreating form casually, I find the familiar tinge of red on my beloved's face as he glares at the air before him, refusing to meet my eyes, or even look in my general direction. He still believes we must conceal our passion, I suppose.

It takes all my strength not to follow him out that door.

* * *

In the days before this fever I might have had a few compunctions about sneaking around and following the one I love as though I don't trust him. Then again, there is something in his almost listless tone, the strange resistance to joining that I would like to attribute to the differences in our species but just can't...something in the way he heaves a weary sigh as though there is some invisible weight forced upon him, of which I am not aware. Perhaps it is the hormones that stir my overprotective mistrust or perhaps he truly does not love me.

I can't shake that look in his eyes, however. I have never seen such a look of deep concern direct toward me before, as though he would traverse the stars in search for a cure for my pain, no matter how insignificant it might be. He might not be ready to reveal our relationship to the rest of the crew, but there's no way he could possibly deny that he loves me.

I am shaken from my pleasant thoughts by the sounds of a crash coming from behind the door before me. Has the captain decided to attack my mate in jealousy? I hear what is definitely his voice cry out, though I cannot be hearing the words correctly. If he were being harmed why would he scream 'faster?'

I rush to enter my override code, mistyping it twice in my haste. When I am finally in the room, with the door whooshing closed behind me, I am stunned by the two forms before me. There is a pile of pads on the floor, undoubtedly kicked off one of the bedside tables. I can see gorgeous long legs that I would recognize in an instant after the close scrutiny I have given them, wrapped around firm buttocks that I have never seen before.

It is obvious to whom they belong, however. I have seen the long neck and fine brown hair of this other in every possible light, in every possible condition, even sweat stained as it is now.

They are too wrapped up in their frantic cries of completion to notice my entrance. The other braces his hands on either side of my beloved's face and rolls them over so they are facing. Their eyes do not leave each other. I hold my breath in astonishment. So this is that hidden nuance that I was unable to find when making my decision.

"Oh God, Trip," the other sobs, still in my lover's warm embrace, "I'm sorry. You know I trust you. I just needed to be inside you. I mean she's so beautiful and a wonderful person, and it's not like I'm not getting any younger."

My beloved laughs in the face of the other's seriousness, but not maliciously. For once I wish he would drop his generous persona and yell. He should say how much this disgusts him. "She's thirty years older than me, and you're what? Ten? We're not having the age-difference conversation again, Jonny, especially not after such a wonderful round of make-up sex."

"I'd think you'd be tired of sex by now." There is lingering resentment in his words, but they are light and jovial.

"I could never get tired of sex with you, darlin'. You'd think ten amazing years together would be enough to convince you of that."

"I just I need a few reassurances sometimes."

He guffaws, delivering a light kiss to his lover's nose, a place where he has never kissed me. "Yes, I know, you old men need to have your memories jogged every once and a while."

"Does that mean the older I get, the more jogging? Because I don't think it works that way, as much as I would like to think it does."

"I don't know. Why don't we give it a try and see?" he says, leaning over to give the other a kiss that reveals more of his soul than even my failed attempt at a mind-meld managed. And I always thought he was the 'open book' he claimed to be.

I am unsure which emotion is dominant: shame, astonishment, or jealousy. It was all there for me to see. In my pride I ignored it. I never considered what, exactly, the captain had done to hurt my beloved. I thought it was his general distance, his disregard for the ethics that we all stood for. Now I realize that they were together even then, for their movements betray the familiarity of many years. They had been in love for a decade when I was convinced that he loved me. His distraction, and later his regrets were all do to the fact that he was cheating. I thought I was 'the one' and I was just 'the other woman.' I shake my head in disgust.

And the captain's supposed jealousy? His overprotectiveness? I thought they were fighting over me, when he was jealous of me for sleeping with his lover. How could I be so arrogant as to assume that they would fight over me? It is clear now that I have nothing to offer them in comparison to each other. I am a cold emotionless being, struggling valiantly to find the tiniest sliver of emotion. Humans need emotions, passion, to thrive. What could I hope to offer them?

I mistook his consignment, his resigned compulsion to morality, for love. He cares about me. That look of love and compassion was never in question, but I think I might finally understand the human distinction between love and being 'in love.' Love cannot be born out of duty. Still, he was willing to risk the relationship with the one he loves in order to save me. Unfortunately, I know that he has always been inclined toward martyrdom.

I fool-heartedly believed that his resistance was a fear for how it would appear, a desire to do his duty. Since when has Charles Tucker III ever cared about appearances? When has he ever put the formalities of duty over what he believed to be right? What I took for trepidation was just a hint of his inner reluctance, conquered to come to the aid of a friend. We were never more than friends; I see that now.

The shame quickly turns to anger in my unhinged mind. I don't care what they once were. I can't even remember the two caring people before me in the anger that surges through me in the wake of the shock. I can only see foreign hands touching what should be mine.

They finally see me as I dart toward them, too late to do anything about it. I grab the offender and yank him from the bed, sending a fist flying directly into his face. He has wronged my mate and me by trying to stand between us. He did not even properly challenge me in a fight to the death. No matter, we will fight now. I have all of the rage of the world behind me and he has nothing but shock, looking up at me from where he sits sprawled on the floor.

I raise my hand to hit him again, but this time it comes down on a broad and already bruised back instead of a delicate skull. I step back, realizing I have caused harm to my beloved as he gasps in pain, body throw protectively over his lover.

He turns to face me, tears of pain in his eyes, still clutching the offender as though he deserves something more than a painful death. I feel this like a blow directly to the chest. He has hurt me more than a proper fight ever could.

"T'Pol." His voice seems to slice through this red haze of anger as effortlessly as a ship cuts through the unresisting vacuum of space. His quiet warning has more pull on my heart than his flaring temper ever could. "If you hurt Jon, God help me, I will let you die." I can almost feel my heart break at the cold fury in his voice, somehow putting more distance between us than is even possible in the physical universe.

But before I can let lose those tears of anguish waiting anxiously to be released into the icy air, I look up to meet those serious blue eyes, finding not ice but the clear depths of a tropical sea. I shake my head, unable to reconcile the harshness of his tone with the naked devotion of his gaze. He loves me. I am confused. But he is willing to let the captain 'fuck' him? No, that's not the strong-willed man I fell in love with, not the man who would exchange such tender words with the other. Is it possible that he loves us both?

In vulcan culture, we never grow to love two beings. It would be illogical to divide our dedication and our lives between two. But perhaps we have it all wrong. Love does not come in fixed quantities to be rationed, like logic dictates we ration everything else. Love cannot be conserved, only preserved. It is not zero-sum. So perhaps, he loves us both.

My body is still angered with the other, remembering his touch upon my beloved's skin, his smell where mine should be, his lips finding those I cherished with far too much familiarity. Still, I rally what little control I have left, clasping my hands at my side, gripping them so tightly that my long fingernails cut into the palm of my hand. At least the blood dripping down my fingers is something else to focus on other than the rage—as though the anger could drain from me with those small droplets of green.

But he saves me. I wonder if he will always be here to save me. He takes as step forward into my arms and I feel his will snap. He submits himself to me unquestioningly. Perhaps he resents our joining, but at least he still trusts me.

His soft reassuring kisses tame the fire of anger into the sweet smoldering of ripe passion. I am lost in a cloud of bliss, enveloped by his suddenly tender sensuality. He tries to lead me toward the bed, but I pull him to the floor. Aroused by the smells of sex already on him, even more intoxicating than any of the other times we've coupled. Is it possible that I was aroused by the sight of him with the other?

I am peripherally aware of that one as he stands warily. Perhaps my beloved is too, because he flips us over so he is on top and deepens the kiss. Even as his tongue invades my mouth, the other is on my mind: The timber of my beloved's voice as the other made him cry out, the strong thrusts of his narrow hips, the delicate ripple of the muscles in his swimmer's shoulders, his strong presence on the bridge, the feel of his arms as he comforts me, the sparkle of his soft green eyes.

I do not know what makes me do it, perhaps the laws of attraction as real as the laws of physics. The universe seems to fuel my impulses just beyond the cusp of my control as I snake a hand out to grab his ankle and pull him toppling to the floor. I feel the body of my beloved tense protectively at my actions, but I reassure him with my eyes as I stretch out a timid hand, as I would reach out to calm a wild animal. Stroking down taunt muscles in a broad back, fascinated by the course dark hair forming on his chest, unlike the soft blond tufts of my beloved. Somehow I do not find them repellent as I should find the body of another.

Our gazes meet, and during this brief respite in my all consuming feral need—here at the eye of the storm—we come to an understanding. I can see tenderness in eyes, all the blame and anger I heard in his voice not long ago banished from the room like a bad dream in the light of day. I remember all of those barely-there comforting touches, the serious consideration he's given every suggestion I've brought to him, the respect he's always made sure inundated our relationship. But even stronger are the flashes of memory: his conspiratorial smile when he knows something amuses me but that I won't express it, the light in his eyes when I announce a new discovery, the trust he put in me when he was at his lowest and none of us was sure we would ever survive. Yes, he has loved me as well.

Somehow, even in the heat of passion, I can find the caring I have always felt for him, the desire to protect his affable naivety before our lives were all torn apart by the Expanse, and the closeted joy at his slow recovery of the innocent love of exploration afterwards. And this caring is melting quickly from compassion to just plain passion. Somehow, the step between them is small in this space warped by desire.

He lies perfectly still, speaking to me only with the flirtation in his eyes. He's challenging me, as always, to face him on the intellectual battlefield and, as always, I accept, the gauntlet thrown firmly down. I learn toward him slowly, giving him time to back down, even though I know he won't. Our lips meet in a brief moment of tenderness and I feel familiar rough but gentle hands stroking down my sides in encouragement.

The kiss melts from tender passion to dire need, propelled onward by the heated body pressing against me from behind, until he too can caress my new lover's cheek. Somehow this feels right, fated almost.

I pull him down for a fierce kiss, one hand caressing his soft features while the other remains on the other-no-longer-other and settling almost subconsciously into the contact points. The second my hands make contact I can feel an explosion of sensation, the passion once denied so fervently now flowing freely. Every touch is intensified a thousandfold, yet blurred in the sea of love that has flooded through me. It is as though I am a conduit for their love. I can see it in their eyes as they meet each other—desire intense enough to burn through the vast emptiness of space and ignite it for eons. I can't help but wonder if we leave a trail of love in our wake, as real as our warp signature. It is in every breath, every sweet caress, it surrounds us and binds us through life and death.

I am transcendent, feeling lighter than I ever have before, closing the circuit of love between us. They have given me the gift of flight, the ability to feel without fear, because they will always be here on either side to protect me and to ground me.

I know now why I could not originally bond with Charles. Bonding is the conjoining of souls, and, while I had an entire body to myself, I only had half a soul. Together, I find in them a single spirit. By the grace of some universal fortitude, this soul so brilliant and overflowing with passion, found within itself the will to love me. Even though these are human terms, I now feel safe using them for I know what it is to be truly blessed. I am stunned beyond the passion of our tumbling bodies to the reverent knowledge that someone in this universe cares enough to nurture the fledgling emotion in me, enveloping it in the safe pocket of unconditional love. Perhaps my people would not be so cold if they could bring themselves to live slowly, protected by angels such as these.

Yes, they are angels, I realize as I watch them kiss, so natural, as though they were brought into this life to do nothing but be together. This is the beauty of the divine that Ensign Mayweather has told me about. And even in their passion, they have the grace to shelter me between them, hands roaming over my body as though it were the familiar muscled form of their lover.

When one tires, there is another waiting to take his place. They do not falter in their attention to me, hyperaware of my needs. Still, they steal kisses and touches between themselves, helping to sustain each other and reinvigorate each other quickly. It is as though they are presenting me with a tour of each other's bodies, enlightening me on small secrets it has taken them years to learn about each other. I find myself loving them more with each small gift, each piece of themselves they are willing to show me.

As our lovemaking goes from heated to tenderly urgent, they take me on a tour of their minds as well, transporting me back in time to the first time they kissed at the back of small dilapidated theater in San Francisco while watching the classic musical 'Singing in the Rain.' They laugh at my thinking that the act of singing in the rain is illogical, the warmth of their gentle teasing bubbling through me like a glass of champagne. For them, singing in the rain is the most logical thing in the world, because they can be happy anywhere together, whether it be thousands of light-years from their home, a battered tent in the Australian Outback, or wrapped in my arms.

They let me experience the feelings of falling in love, and we all wonder at how they seemed to do it simultaneously, as if calibrating their emotions before joining. Charles thinks of the shifting of gears in a car and Jonathan and I laugh at our brief brush with old-fashioned automobiles.

Jonathan lets us see his childhood when his father helped him build a model spaceship and how he struggled to learn to fly it and we experience Charles' awe of seeing the man he knew as a mentor and hero simply playing with his young son.

Charles shows me all of the jovial members of his large family, all as honest and welcoming as he. Then Jonathan reveals the overwhelming terror he felt when meeting all of them for the first time and being smothered in hugs and threats never to hurt their beloved Trip. Especially warm are the bittersweet memories of his baby sister Lizzie, and we all find ourselves with tears in our eyes, though somehow the moisture on my cheeks is comforting. We hold Charles between us, enveloping him in our love, showing that we will always be here to comfort him.

Jonathan turns the thoughts delicately to his first girlfriend, and Charles chuckles at how he she dumped him for stepping on her toes during their seventh grade dance. At Jonathan's challenge, Charles reveals how he met his first boyfriend watching women in a strip club.

I almost feel ashamed, for I have no poignant memories, no happy moments to share. Again, they are here to comfort me and draw me out of myself—asking to see the sunsets on Vulcan, the many worlds I have been to on my journeys, the infuriating Ambassador Soval in his time as my mentor. They even trick me into revealing my initial impressions of them and the rest of the crew when receiving my posting on _Enterprise_ , pretending to be offended when I catalogued them as 'inferior illogical and disgustingly smelly apes.'

We continue our lovemaking until the early hours of the morning, when I am finally sated, falling contentedly asleep, and dreaming of the warm Florida sun on my back watching a football match played by cartoon dolphins and the nervousness of piloting a previously untested warp vessel, naked.

* * *

I wake to find myself shivering slightly in the cooler temperature that humans prefer for rest, sweat drying in a pleasantly sticky sheet on my naked back. I'm sleeping perched on the edge of Jonathan's large bed, watching them spooned together in the perfect mess of limbs that makes it hard to tell where one ends and the other begins, a position to which I'm sure they have become well accustomed over the years. Almost instinctually I wonder if this is a physical manifestation of our newly christened relationship.

Will I always be the outsider? The interloper? Just a momentary blip in the eternity of their love? The visitor watching but never joining in their lives together? It is strange. Even as I feel the fires of the fever being slowly quenched to steadily glowing embers, I know that life would not be the same without this. Unlike the pon farr of many of my brethren, this is no a temporary lapse of sanity, to be revisited and utterly consummated every seven years. I have been irrevocably changed by what might just end up being a brief brush with bliss, with true emotional stability. For I have finally found home in myself rather than a delicate balance between control and irrationality.

My thoughts are interrupted by a sudden awareness, the feel of eyes studying me. I look up to notice bright blue orbs peering at me from over the snoring mountain of man in between us. He gives me a sleepy smile and a wink as he reaches over his lover to grab my hand while simultaneously giving the slumbering form before him a well placed shove.

I am surprised that Jonathan does not wake as Charles pulls me to settle between them, letting an aimless caress exorcise the cold from my naked form. I raise an eyebrow as Jonathan grunts and splays a strong arm possessively across my waist, pulling me to him. Charles stifles a laugh, his satisfied but comfortable smile telling me that this will probably be a regular occurrence from now on. I feel hope flutter in my breast as he nuzzles against me, and falls back to sleep with a sigh.

I find myself hypnotized into the land of dreams by the delicate harmony of their breathing. Jonathan's baritone snores serving as the perfect counterpoint to the light flutter of Charles' breath against my cheek. I don't know what will come. There are no customs or duties to follow, no history to guide me, for no one has ever done this before. Still, I have the unconscious caress of my two beloved to comfort and guide me. It is not logical, but here cocooned between them, I trust that everything will turn out right.


End file.
